CHAPTER XXXIV.
PALM-TREES AND PINES.
A world of palm-trees and pines, of aloes and eucalyptus, of luxuriant hedges all nodding and laughing with gay red roses, of white villas gleaming out from a misty background of olives, of cloudless sky looking down on the deep blue sea—a vivid sunshiny world, and in the midst of it all, Miss Lucy, to all appearance as gay and as light-hearted as if she had never dissected the pterygo-maxillary region, nor pored over the pages of Quain.
The band was playing waltzes in the garden below, and Lucy, as she dressed, was dancing and swaying to and fro, like the roses in the wind.
"Entrez!" she cried, without moderating her steps, as she heard a knock at the door.
It was Evelyn, fair, tall, and somewhat severe.
"You are not very like a medical student," she said gravely.
"I should take that for an unmixed compliment, if I did not know what it meant."
"What does it mean?"
"That I am not in the least like Mona."
"Well, you are not, you know."
"True, ma belle. It was you who fitted on the lion's skin, not I. But did you come into my room just to tell me that?"
"I came to say that if you can be ready in ten minutes, Father will take us all to Monte Carlo."
"Ten minutes! Oh, Evelyn, and you have wasted one! What are you going to wear?"
"This, of course. What should I wear?"
Lucy selected a gown from her wardrobe. "But is not Sir Douglas still awfully tired with the journey?" she asked, looking over her shoulder to get a back view of her pretty skirt in the pier-glass.
"He has rested more or less for two days, and he is anxious to see the Monteiths before they go on to Florence."
She did not add, "I told him you were pining to see Monte Carlo before you go home."
"The Monteiths," repeated Lucy involuntarily. And as she heard the name on her own lips, the healthy flush on her cheek deepened almost imperceptibly.
Evelyn seated herself on a hat-box.
"I don't believe you will ever be a doctor," she remarked calmly.
"What do you bet?" Lucy did not look up from the arduous task of fastening her bodice.
"I don't bet; but if you ever are, I'll—consult you!"
And having solemnly discharged this Parthian dart, she left the room.
In truth, the two girls were excellent friends, although they were continually sparring. Evelyn considered Lucy an absolute fraud in the capacity of "learned women," but she did not on that account find the light-hearted medical student any the less desirable as a companion. As to comparing her with Mona, Evelyn would have laughed at the bare idea; and loyal little Lucy would have been the first to join in the laugh: she had never allowed any one even to suspect that she had passed an examination in which Mona had failed. Mona was the centre of the system in which she was a satellite; she was bitterly jealous of all the other satellites in their relation to the centre, but who would be jealous of the sun?
Lady Munro had taken a great fancy to her visitor. She would not have owned to the heresy for the world, but she certainly was much more at her ease in Lucy's society than she ever had been in Mona's, and how Sir Douglas could find his niece more piquante than Lucy Reynolds, she could not even imagine. She knew exactly where she had Lucy, but even when Mona agreed with her most warmly, she had an uncomfortable feeling that a glance into her niece's mind might prove a little startling. She met Lucy on common ground, but Mona seemed to be on a different plane, and Lady Munro found it extremely difficult to tell when that plane was above, and when below, her own.
She would have been not a little surprised, and her opinion of the relative attractions of the two friends might have been somewhat altered, had any one told her that Mona admired and idealised her much more even than Lucy did. If any one of us were unfortunate enough to receive the "giftie" of which the poet has sung, it is probable that the principal result of such insight would be a complete readjustment of our friendships.
But now Sir Douglas had appeared upon the scene, and of course Lucy was much more anxious to "succeed" with him than with either of the others. She had seen very little of him as yet, and she had done her best, but so far the result had been somewhat disappointing. It was almost a principle with Sir Douglas never to pay much attention to a pretty young girl. He had seen so many of them in his day, and they were all so much alike. Even this saucy little Æsculapia militans was no exception. As the scientist traces an organism through "an alternation of generations," and learns by close observation that two or three names have been given to one and the same being, so Sir Douglas fancied he saw in Lucy Reynolds only an old and familiar type in a new stage of its life-history.
He had gone through much trouble and perplexity on the subject of Mona's life-work; and Dudley's somewhat fanciful words had for the first time given expression to a vague idea that had floated formless in his own mind ever since he first met his niece at Gloucester Place. It would be ridiculous to apply such an explanation to Lucy's choice, but Sir Douglas had no intention of opening up the problem afresh. He took for granted that Lucy had undertaken the work "for the fun of the thing," because it was novel, startling, outré; and he confided to his wife that "that old Reynolds must be a chuckle-headed noodle in his dotage to allow such a piece of nonsense."
In a very short time after Evelyn's summons to Lucy, the whole party were rattling down the hill to the station, in the crisp, cold, dewy morning air. Evelyn was calm and dignified as usual, but Lucy was wild with excitement. Everything was a luxury to her—to be with a man of the world like Sir Douglas, to travel in a luxurious first-class carriage, to see a little bit more of this wonderful world.
They left Nice behind them, and then the scenery became gradually grander and more severe, till the train had to tunnel its way through the mighty battlements of rock that towered above the sea, and afforded a scanty nourishment to the scattered pines, all tossed and bent and twisted by the wind in the enervating climate of the south. At last, jutting out above the water, at the foot of the rugged heights, as though it too, forsooth, had the rights of eternal nature, Monte Carlo came in view,—gay, vulgar, beautiful, tawdry, irresistible Monte Carlo!
"Is that really the Casino?" said Lucy, in an eager hushed voice.
Sir Douglas laughed. Lucy's enthusiasm pleased him in spite of himself.
"It is," he said; "but, if you have no objection, we'll have something to eat before we visit it."
To him the Casino was a commonplace toy of yesterday; to Evelyn it was a shocking and beautiful place, that one ought to see for once; to Lucy it was a temple of romance. No need to bid her speak softly as she entered the gorgeous, gloomy halls, with their silent eager groups.
"Shall we see Gwendolen Harleth?" she whispered to Evelyn.
On this occasion, however, Gwendolen Harleth was conspicuous by her absence. There were a number of women at the roulette-tables who looked like commonplace, hard-working governesses; there were be-rouged and be-jewelled ladies of the demi-monde; there were wicked, wrinkled old harpies who always seemed to win; and there were one or two ordinary blooming young girls; but there was no Gwendolen Harleth. For a moment Lucy was almost disappointed. It all looked so like a game with counters, and no one seemed to care so very much where the wheel stopped: surely the tragedy of this place had been a little overdrawn.
At that instant her eyes fell on an English boy, whose fresh honest face was thrown into deep anxious furrows, and who kept glancing furtively round, as if to make sure that no one noticed his misery. His eye met Lucy's, and with a great effort he tried to smooth his face into a look of easy assurance. He was not playing, but he went on half unconsciously, jotting down the winning numbers on a slip of paper.
"Messieurs, faites vos jeux."
The boy opened a large lean pocket-book, and drew out his last five-franc piece.
"Le jeu est fait."
With sudden resolution he laid it on the table, and pushed it into place.
"Rien ne, va plus."
"Vingt-sept."
And the poor little five-franc piece was swept into the bank.
The boy smiled airily, and returned the empty book to his pocket.
Lucy looked at her companions, but none of them had noticed the little tragedy. Sir Douglas led the way to another table, and finally he handed a five-franc piece to each of the girls. To his mind it was a part of the programme that they should be able to say they had tried their luck.
Lucy hesitated, strongly tempted. Dim visions floated before her mind of making "pounds and pounds," and handing them over to that poor boy. Then she shook her head.
"My father would not like it," she whispered.
Sir Douglas shrugged his shoulders. Verily, there was no accounting for taste. How a man could allow his daughter to spend years in the dissecting-room, and in the surgical wards of a hospital,—subject her, in fact, to the necessity of spending her life in an atmosphere of carbolic,—and object to her laying a big silver counter on a green cloth, just for once, was more than he could divine.
Evelyn hesitated also. But it would be such fun to say she had done it. She took the coin and laid it on the table. "Where would you put it?" she whispered rather helplessly to Lucy.
Lucy knew nothing of the game, but she had been watching its progress attentively, and her eye had been trained to quick and close observation. Annoyed at Evelyn's slowness, and without stopping to think, she took the cue and pushed the coin into place. It was just in time. In another instant Evelyn's stake was doubled.
"There, that will do," said Sir Douglas, as Evelyn seemed inclined to repeat the performance. "I don't want to see your cheeks like those of that lady opposite."
A gentleman stood aside to let them leave the table, and as they passed he held out his hand to Lucy. She did not take it at once, but looked up at Sir Douglas in pretty consternation.
"There!" she said. "I knew it! This is one of my father's churchwardens."
Sir Douglas was much amused. "Well," he said, "you have at least met on common ground!"
Lucy attempted a feeble explanation of the situation in which she had been caught, and then hastily followed the others to the inner temples sacred to Rouge et Noir. Here, at least, there was tragedy enough even at the first glance. Lucy almost forgot the poor lad at the roulette-table, as she watched the piles of gold being raked hither and thither with such terrific speed. One consumptive-looking man, whose face scarcely promised a year of life, was staking wildly, and losing, losing, losing. At lust the piles in front of him were all gone. After a moment's hesitation they were followed by note after note from his pocket-book. Then these too came to an end, but still the relentless wheel went on with that swiftness that is like nothing else on earth. The man made no movement to leave the table. With yellow-white shaking hands he continued to note the results, and while all the rest were staking and winning and losing, he went on aimlessly, feverishly pricking some meaningless design on the ruled sheet before him. And all the time two young girls were gaining, gaining, gaining, and smiling to the men behind them as they raked in the piles of gold.
"Let us go," said Lucy quickly. "I cannot bear this."
"I do think we have had enough of it," Lady Munro agreed. "I am thirsty, Douglas; let us have some coffee."
They strolled out into the bright sunshine.
"Well," said Sir Douglas, "a little disappointing, n'est ce pas?"
"Oh no," said Lucy; "not at all. It is far more real than I thought. The only disappointing thing is that——"
"What?"
She lifted her eyes with an expression of profound gravity.
"All the women trim their own hats."
"Why, Lucy," put in Evelyn, "I saw some very nice hats."
"I did not say none of them trimmed their hats well," said Lucy severely. "I only said they all trimmed their own."
"We are rather too early in the day for toilettes," said Sir Douglas. "I confess one does not see many attractive women here; but there was a highly respectable British matron just opposite us at that last table."
"Yes," said Lucy indignantly. "She was the worst of all; sailing about in her comfortable British plumage, with that air of self-satisfied horror at the depth of Continental wickedness, and of fond pride in the bouncing flapper at her heels. She made me feel that it was worse to look on than to play."
"Don't distress yourself," said Sir Douglas quietly; "you did play, you know. Ask the churchwarden."
"I owe you five francs," said Evelyn, "or ten. Which is it?"
"Don't!" said Lucy. "It is no laughing matter for me, I can assure you. Many is the trick I have played on that man. Heigh-ho! He has his revenge."
"Don't be down-hearted. You had at least the satisfaction of winning."
But Lucy was in no humour for being teased, and, to change the subject, she began to tell the story of the different tragedies she had witnessed.
"It is all nonsense, you know," said Sir Douglas good-humouredly. "That is the sort of stuff they put in the good books. People who are really being bitten don't attract attention to themselves by overdone by-play."
Lucy did not reply, but she retained her own opinion. Overdone by-play, indeed! As if she had eyes for nothing more subtle than overdone by-play!
"In the meantime we will have our coffee," said Sir Douglas, "and then I will leave you at the concert, while I look up Monteith. I will come and fetch you at the end of the first part. Here, Maud, this table is disengaged."
The head-waiter came up immediately. Sir Douglas was one of those people who rarely have occasion to call a waiter. He gave the order, lighted a cigar very deliberately, and then turned abruptly to Lucy.
"Where is Mona?" he asked quietly.
Lucy almost gasped for breath.
"She was in London when I saw her last," she said, trying to gain time.
"At her old rooms?"
"No-o," faltered Lucy. "She was sharing my rooms then."
Then she gathered herself together. This would never do. Anything would be better than to suggest that there was a mystery in the matter.
"You see," she said, "I have been away ever since the beginning of term, and I have not heard from Mona for some time. I know she has taken all the classes she requires for her next examination, and reading can be done in one place as well as in another."
"Then why the—why could not she come to us and do it?"
Lucy laughed. She began to hope that the storm was passing over.
"I suppose Mona would reply," she said, "that Cannes, like Cambridge, is an excellent place to play in."
"Then you don't know her address?"
"I don't know it positively. I think it is quite likely that she is with that cousin of hers in the north. She said once that she could do far more work in that bracing air."
"So she has gone there to prepare for this examination?"
"I believe she is working very hard."
"And when does the examination take place?"
"I have not heard her say when she means to go up. You see, Sir Douglas, my plans are Mona's, but Mona's plans are her own. She is not one to rush through her course anyhow for the sake of getting on the register, like—me for instance."
"I can believe that. It seems Mona told her aunt that she was leaving her old rooms, and that it would be well to address letters for the present to the care of her man of business. Is that what you do?"
"I have not written for a long time. I shall send my next to her man of business."
"And won't I just give Mona a vivid account of how I came to do it!" she added mentally.
"Have you seen this lady—Mona's cousin? I don't know anything about her."
"No, I have not. I believe she is very quiet, and elderly, and respectable,—and dull; the sort of person in whose house one can get through a lot of work."
"Humph," growled Sir Douglas. "A nice life for a girl like Mona!"
"I am sure I wish she were here!"
Sir Douglas looked at her. "Some of us," he said quietly, "wish that every day of our lives. I called the other day to take her for a drive in the Park, but found she had left her old rooms." And then he told the story of his little misadventure of a few days before.
"Oh," said Lucy, "what a terrible pity! Mona loves driving in the Park. Do go for her again some day when she is working in London. You have no idea what a treat a drive in the Park is to people who have been poring over their bones, and their books, and their test-tubes."
"Well, what in the name of all that is incomprehensible does she do it for? She might drive in the Park every day if she chose."
"But then," said Lucy, "she would not be Mona."
The muscles of his face relaxed, and then contracted again.
"Even admitting," he said, "that all is well just now, how will it be ten years hence?"
"Ten years hence," said Evelyn, "Mona will have married a clever young doctor. Lucy says the students have several times married the lecturers."
Sir Douglas frowned. "I should just like to see," he flashed out angrily, "the young doctor who would presume to come and ask me for Mona! I hate the whole trade. Why, that young fellow I told you about, who came to my rescue, was infinitely superior to most of them—cultured, and travelled, and that sort of thing—but, bless my soul! he was not a man of the world. I would sooner see Mona in a convent than give her to a whipper-snapper like that!"
"Evelyn is wrong," said Lucy. "Mona will not marry. She never thinks of that sort of thing. Ten years hence she will be a little bit matronly, by reason of all the girls and women she will have mothered. Her face will be rather worn perhaps, but in my eyes at least she will be beautiful."
"And in yours, Douglas," said Lady Munro, "she will still be the bright young girl that she is to-day."
She laughed softly as she spoke, but the laugh was a rather half-hearted one. She had learnt the difference between the fruit that is in a man's hand, and the fruit that is just out of reach.